


An Ordinary Sunday

by MarshmallowMcGonagall



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Based on a Tumblr Post, Firewhisky, Gen, Hogwarts, making amends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:27:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23923075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarshmallowMcGonagall/pseuds/MarshmallowMcGonagall
Summary: It's September 1981 and Snape begins his teaching career at Hogwarts. Three days in, he calls McGonagall, "Mum".The mortifying and awkward beginnings of a friendship follow.
Relationships: Minerva McGonagall & Severus Snape
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	An Ordinary Sunday

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this Tumblr post](https://marshmallowmcgonagall.tumblr.com/post/616798791606124544/dastardly-lemondrops-like-i-see-headcanons-about).

**1981 September 3rd Thursday**

Snape wanted to die. The feeling was not unfamiliar, he had to concede, but the cause? Voldemort holding court paled in comparison to the Hogwarts staff room. The staff room where, minutes before, he called McGonagall “Mum”. He strode past students who, only three years earlier, he shared a common room with. And now he was their Head of House. A Head of House who just called his colleague “Mum” in front of all the staff. 

**1981 November 2nd Monday**

There was a sharp knock at the door which Snape then flung open. The wood and metal crashed against the stone wall, and the resounding clang penetrated every effort he was making to numb himself.

“Severus?” asked McGonagall, gently.

It was a little after six in the morning. Somewhere along the way, minutes bled into hours and hours became days. He suspected there were moments when his eyes closed and he slipped into something like sleep. He remembered everything and nothing. There were hours sliced clean from time and minutes he was terrified would never stop echoing through his mind. 

“Yes?” he said.

“I wondered if you were feeling up to teaching today.” The remnants of grief in McGonagall’s features were deepened by her wince at his expression. “I can arrange for—”

“Why wouldn’t I be capable of teaching?” he snapped.

“No reason,” she said, with the slightest shake of her head. “I will see you at breakfast, then.”

She turned and walked away. He slammed the door shut and stumbled towards his personal potions store. He rifled through shelves of vials. He would be fine. He was fine.

His fist slammed into the wall.

**1982 January 9th Saturday**

He reeked of Firewhisky and didn’t much care. He knew the knock. It managed to be assertive without being aggressive. He didn’t like that a knock on a door could say so much. Didn’t like the reminder of his mother’s timid rapping after—

He swigged Firewhisky, and grimacing at the burn, he put the bottle down before walking to the door in what he considered to be a straight line.

“Yes?” he snapped, as he swung the door open.

McGonagall sighed heavily and without pretense looked Snape up and down. “How are you, Severus?”

“Are you asking for a particular reason?” He had no patience for anything but life-threatening situations, and if they were life-threatening, he was sure someone else would have the good sense not to suggest him as a good source of help. 

McGonagall appeared to weigh up her options. Or at least she was doing what he remembered from when he was a student. She had a way of looking at a person which didn’t have the grace to even use Legilimency and was instead some wretched innate capacity to see what other people didn’t. Her gaze slid to the bottles on the table.

“Professor McGonagall,” he said, “not—not to incon-inconvenience you.” Drat. Perhaps he had drunk too much. He squinted in his attempt to focus. “But can I help you or—or are you here simply to revel in my latest failures?” Ah. Yes. Definitely too much Firewhisky. Obliviating McGonagall might not go down well, however, and in his current state might not even go well to begin with.

“Minerva,” she said. “You can call me Minerva.” She smiled sadly, brushed down the sleeves of her robes and was about to turn and leave when she paused. “It’s nothing, Severus. Some third year Slytherins causing havoc but it’s been some time since I’ve handed out good detentions. I’ll handle them and you carry on with your plans for the evening.”

“Thank you,” he said, forcing the words out.

She gave a small nod and walked away.

He closed the door and grabbed the Firewhisky. 

**1982 March 21st Sunday**

He paced back and forth outside the door to McGonagall’s office, a bottle of Ogden’s in hand. It was a decent vintage. Not the kind for getting drunk on, but the kind to enjoy. Only a year in difference to the one left in his quarters by the House-elves on Christmas Day. The one with a note which read: _Happy Christmas, M. M._

Casting a Bombarda at the floor would only bring her to the door more quickly.

She would know, and even if she didn’t, he had a sneaking suspicion she would guess. The dungeons. He would go back to the dungeons and drink the lot. There was plenty of Hangover Potion. He would be sober for the next day’s teaching. He stopped pacing and leant against the wall. First lesson would be a double period for Gryffindor and Ravenclaw sixth years. He glanced down at the bottle. The lesson might be easier if he wasn’t sober. If they weren’t claiming they knew better and trying to prove their point, the sixth years were intent on pushing the realms of conceivable stupidity within proximity to volatile potions. Next year—next year he would change Slughorn’s standards and only let Outstanding students into the N.E.W.T. classes. 

Yes. The dungeons. He would go back to the dungeons and—

“Severus?” 

He spun on his heel and saw McGonagall watching him curiously from the doorway of her office. He could still run. Just leg it back to the dungeons and get sloshed. Except he was a Head of House. A Professor. He was meant to have—Merlin—he was meant to have manners.

He strode back and held out the bottle of Firewhisky.

“Belated Christmas present,” he said, briskly.

Snape was about to make a more polite exit than previously planned when McGonagall gave a delicate cough. He hated that cough. He remembered it from when he was a student. It was in the same vein as her arched eyebrow which could quell a herd of Hippogriffs, let alone a classroom of students.

“I’ve always thought Firewhisky was better when it was shared,” she said. “Care to join me for a dram?”

She lowered her gaze, ostensibly to read the label but the move was measured in a way which, it appeared, didn’t come naturally to Gryffindors of any age. By the time she looked up again, he was resigned to his fate. He nodded and her smile grew.

“Well, come in, then,” she said. 

He walked into her office and stopped by the hearth where his gaze was drawn to the Mothering Sunday cards on the mantelpiece.

“From my nieces and nephews,” said McGonagall. Laughing gently, she opened a cabinet and brought out crystal lowball glasses. “Their mothers used to help them send cards when they were bairns, and they still do it now they’re grown-up.”

“A Muggle tradition, isn’t it?” said Snape, trying to sound offhand, as he considered how best to bolt from the room. 

“My father was a Muggle.” She glanced at him, her mouth twisting with a smile which he knew—just knew—was all that held her back from calling him, “Young man.”

“My—my dad was a Muggle.” He didn’t know why he said it and he turned away from her to look at the painting above the fireplace.

“I know,” she said, softly, as she crossed the room. “I knew your mother.” She handed him a glass of the Firewhisky. “Possibly better than you realise.”

“Thank you.” He stared at the amber liquid before glancing up. He hesitated for a moment, then said, “Thank you, Minerva.”


End file.
